


Walking Disasters

by iloveyoudie



Series: Sure would be a bummer if he got shot and died... [1]
Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Blow Jobs, Drunk Sex, Drunkenness, Hand Jobs, Hook-Up, M/M, Modern Era, Morning After, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-15
Updated: 2020-04-15
Packaged: 2021-02-24 03:21:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23669698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iloveyoudie/pseuds/iloveyoudie
Summary: George had flirted a bit once he’d read the signals right, gone ahead and touched his leg under the table with the usual cheeky overconfidence that had always done him well, but it had been Box who had initiated. Box had been the one to lean in when the chatter around them got too loud and tell George that he wanted to take him home and make him scream his name.
Relationships: Ronnie Box/George Fancy
Series: Sure would be a bummer if he got shot and died... [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1695859
Comments: 10
Kudos: 31





	Walking Disasters

**Author's Note:**

> _And flowers might wilt when we walk past_   
>  _And self-help might help when it makes us laugh_   
>  _Only finding questions in answers_   
>  _You and I are just walking disasters_
> 
> There's a first time for everything... 

The door of the flat shivered open, almost hitting the wall with the force of it. Box came first with an unsteady step after he’d shouldered himself through just as it popped open under his key. Fancy was behind him, one hand pressed to Box’s back for balance and stumbling along with him.

Fancy blinked behind him into the hall and then inside, “S’is your flat?”

“Mm hmm,” Box caught himself on his first step forward, pivoted, and as Fancy lost that point of contact, he stumbled face first Box’s chest.

“Would be funny, two cops breaking into the wrong-” Fancy started a sentence but his hands slid over Box’s chest as he tried to brace himself and regain his balance. He could feel every bit of him under the thin fabric of his shirt, solid bulk and heat, muscle and strength. Box’s arms coming around to encircle him felt almost unreal, but with both of them drunk as bloody skunks, thinking too long about anything was simply impossible. Every thought and sensation felt like new when his attention span was like a damn goldfish.

Had he been talking? One of Box’s hands went down the back of his trousers and gripped his bare arse and squeezed. George groaned, “- _fuck_.”

The usual evening happy hour had gone the way it always did, George buying the first round, Jim and he talking about plans they probably wouldn’t follow through on, Thursday and Morse off in a booth somewhere until the Guv went home to his family. Morse took up his crossword when Jim left not long after, gone back home to his missus as well, and George watched his housemates at the end of the bar getting progressively more hammered if they didn’t walk out with an evening date. He couldn’t help but think he was in a really weird place in his life. There was a split between his immediate work mates and the lads from his lodgings, despite them all being police. The Cowley boys kept themselves separate for the most part, aside from Jim, and he’d been less present as a rule since he’d gotten married to Thursday's daughter and now they were expecting. George liked living with a bunch of other blokes for the sake of always having something to do, but having a flat of his own was something he’d always wanted and been working towards, so he’d cut down on the binges and the club nights and kept himself inside to save a bit of scratch. Still, associating with the likes of Morse did him no favors socially, so George had to make a good deal of effort to expand his connections into the further reaches of CID, Box and Dawson and McNutt and the rest, and he’d discovered that for the most part they were all fairly normal.

With the group dispersed, George had found himself a table and ordered a pint and shot and decided to give it a go with the waitress who had a sort of red pixie cut and a lot of very visible and enticing tattoos, the sort you wanted to find out where they went. Somewhere along the line he distantly remembered telling her to ‘keep them coming,’ because why not, yeah? She was a bit of alright and had that flirty way about her and if she kept coming back over and over, he had a better chance of getting her number.

Obviously, the amount of alcohol involved wasn’t even a consideration.

A couple rounds in and Morse had tried to put a kibosh on it. He appeared out of nowhere to tell him that he’d had enough, but before he could protest, DI Box had stepped away from the other detectives and moved in. He told Morse that George was a man who could make his own choices and then dropped into the seat beside him, extended an arm along the back of George’s chair, and gave Morse a look that said he wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon.

The face Morse had made in response defied explanation.

George wasn't sure when Morse had finally left the pub, maybe he hadn’t. He hadn’t paid him any attention after that, mostly because Box had stolen it. There were more drinks and Box telling him that getting pissed wasn’t going to land him that chatty waitress because he knew her type too well and she only had eyes for one thing: the cash George was dumping on her with every tip.

Box bought him a round. Maybe two - it was murky - and George remembered eventually stumbling out into the cool spring evening air, crowding Box against his car door, and telling him he wanted to suck his dick.

And he had. Right there in the carpark. They’d barely been in the vehicle a moment before he was biting the DI's bottom lip between his teeth and fighting to get into the man’s trousers, hurried and horny and wanting a taste.

And now they were in Box’s flat and he didn’t much remember the drive there. George was positive that neither of them were sober enough to operate a car, but Box’s hands were gripping his arse and George was shoving him back against the front door until it slammed back closed again. He was on him then, his hands journeying up to tangle in Box’s thick hair and pull his face down for another hungry, messy kiss.

George practically climbed him. First one leg hiked up and Box braced an arm underneath it, and then he was hopping up, gripping him and pulling up the other leg as Box’s arms easily linked under his bottom and held him aloft.

Fucking hell he was solid. Strong.

_God, he was so hard._

Box’s mouth was on his neck and George cast his head back with his eyes closed as he groaned, “Destroy me.”

Box laughed in short surprise, “What?”

“Nothing,” George’s fingers tugged his hair and tried to press Box’s face back into his skin.

Box complied, burying his face back into George’s neck again to suck a patch of skin hard enough to bruise. He growled low, “Oh, I’ll wreck you lad.”

George let out a breathy, desperate sound.

Under normal circumstances he’d have been fascinated by Box’s flat. You could tell a lot about a person by their living space, but he didn’t have the time to enjoy it while he was being carried to the bedroom. On the day-to-day, Box was intimidating and difficult, rough around the edges and as close to a villain as it got when they were the police, but he was always infuriatingly attractive. In a way he had mystery, in the way where everyone was happy to share an opinion on him in hushed whispers if asked, and George had heard a couple of unsavoury stories, but none of it was anything that hadn’t gone round the office two or three times before it had got to his ear so it was easy to write it all off as gossip.

What George _did_ know was that he and Morse hated one another and that he was _well fit_ and that tonight he’d sat down and talked to him and bought him drinks and it had turned Morse’s face a shade of color he’d never seen before. George had flirted a bit once he’d read the signals right, gone ahead and touched his leg under the table with the usual cheeky overconfidence that had always done him well, but it had been Box who had initiated. Box had been the one to lean in when the chatter around them got too loud and tell George that he wanted to take him home and make him scream his name.

That was all George _really_ needed to know.

George was tossed onto a neatly made bed that felt impossibly huge in his inebriation. His pickled brain had him groaning in a different kind of pleasure, the kind that came from laying down after a day of work, all of his muscles and bones finally settling onto something soft, but he barely had time to enjoy it before big hands were working at his trousers and George found a completely shirtless Ronnie Box straddling him on his knees and fumbling drunk fingers over his button and fly.

George was honestly a bit upset that he'd missed the striptease, _damn this comfortable bed_.

“Outta these,” Box grunted, shifting himself as George wriggled the fabric off of his hips.

“Yessir,” Fancy held back an amused smile.

Box bore down on him again and kissed him back into the pillows. Against George's lips he rumbled low, “Much as I like the sound of that… It’s Ronnie.”

They were nose to nose, darkened blue eyes boring into his own and George felt a tremor through his gut that had nothing to do with the drink, a bit to do with the arousal, and a lot more to do with something hot and greedy inside him that was very satisfied by Box’s singular attention. He smiled small again, “Alright, Ronnie.”

Box flashed that devilish crooked smile again, sat up, and stripped George out of his shirt.

The rest became a whirl of strong and curious hands, greedy mouths, heaving bodies. George had followed through on his earlier offer several fold, relishing in the taste and feel of Box on his tongue when given the chance, and the older man kept up on his promise as well, folded over George’s back, bodies surging together, growling dirty flattery and encouragements in his ear until George was crying out Box’s name into a pillow over and over until his voice broke into a million pieces along with his self control.

* * *

George may have passed out, it was hard to say. When he came back to himself he was still naked, still damp with sweat and sex and everything in between. He could feel a cool breeze over his bare body and smell cigarette smoke but Box wasn’t in the bed with him and when he lifted his head from the pillow he was clutching, he found the man standing by the window, naked as the day he was born, having a cigarette.

The alcohol had worn off, half way at least, and George was craving water and thought a couple of tablets may do him good but he found himself unclear of the boundaries in Box’s space. He wasn’t keen on getting kicked out this early, it was probably just going on about midnight, but he had - he realized just now - fucked his boss.

Were there rules for that sort of thing?

“You can smoke that over here,” George tested the waters, “I don’t mind.”

He didn’t mind the view either. Box had strong thighs and an arse you could bounce something off of. He’d make a note of that in the future, if there was one. Box was all meat and musk and testosterone and even so soon after being shagged senseless, George was thinking of having a bit more. With a bit of a nap, or maybe just a snack, he was sure he could find the energy to make a night of this.

“Smoking in bed’s what starts fires, you know,” Box turned, leaned his bare arse against the window sill, and watched George where he lay.

The view was even better from the front.

George found his need for a drink became pressing, “Mouth tastes like rubbish.”

“Get a drink then,” Box snorted with absolutely no chivalry, “Sure you can work out where the kitchen and bathroom are. You’re a detective.”

George didn’t take offense to it, on the contrary, it let him know just what sort of dynamic this was. Box hadn’t turned into a sop or a romantic in the span of an evening. That was, in a way, reassuring. So George followed the example set. He got himself up, groaned and stretched out some achey bits, and caught Box watching him as he smoked out of the corner of his eye.

Using his _keen detective skills_ he found the bathroom without fuss (turns out it was the tiny room with the toilet and shower in!), and while relishing in his own amusing mental monologue of the discovery, he cleaned himself up, had some water, and took a couple of tablets for the ache he knew would only get worse as evening went on. When he returned to the bedroom he brought Box some water as well, though he knew he didn’t have to, and found the other had finished smoking and was in the middle of lowering the window. The older man looked mildly charmed that he’d been brought a drink and thanked George with only a smirk and a curiously quirked eyebrow before he chugged the entire thing down in one go. George had never been so fascinated by how someones neck moved before.

“Time is it?” George was looking around for his clothes, his phone, anything. His trousers were in a lump against the wall and his shirt beside the bed but no sign of his jacket with wallet and warrant card and phone. He was fairly sure it had been dropped somewhere between here and the front door.

“Midnight-ish,” Box stretched now, bits of his spine popping, and George couldn’t help admiring the way his body moved and the way the muscles of his back tensed and relaxed under his tanned skin.

He wanted to touch him again. He was itching for it. Both of them naked, barely late by his own standards, and with a good buzz still going -

He could hear Oxford’s bells ringing distantly, confirming the time. George had a decision to make: lay back in the bed and invite himself for more and see what happened, or start to get dressed with the unspoken implication that he would be going home.

So he sat back on the bed, and without discussion, Box sat too. Taking it as a sign, George hid his smile of pleasure and crawled back under the sheet and up to cradle a pillow and rub his face in it. It smelled like Box.

“Oxford bells are off, you know,” George murmured as he watched Box lean over to fish around on the floor among his own clothing, “Morse told me. Five minutes or something.”

Box grunted as he produced his mobile from his own discarded trousers, clicked the button and flashed it lighting up as 12:05AM, “Don’t need Morse for that one. Just a bloody phone.”

“Did you sit with me in the pub just to spite Morse?” George wasn’t sure where the question came from, but he knew that Morse’s presence had been an influence on all of their initial interactions. Morse had a way about him that hung over everything when it came to work and sometimes George worried that he’d be slapped with some sort of label just through their association. He was probably guilty himself of getting a bit of a kick seeing Box stick it to him on the regular.

“Did you come back here for the same reason?” Box turned and settled on his side on one elbow to pin George with a bemused look.

“No,” That was mostly true. There was a tiny bit of him that thought Morse would hate the idea of this hook up and it did make it all the more sweet, but he’d flirted with Box because he was a little tipsy and Box was fucking hot. He’d gone to the man’s car with him because he’d been given an invitation that he couldn’t resist, and even after sucking him off he’d still been greedy for more. Box could have had his rocks off and thrown him to the curb but he hadn't. George had come back here because Box was attractive, interested, and because he’d desperately wanted to be demolished by him.

“Then why are we talking about Morse?”

George restrained himself from smiling too much at the implication of the turned about question and ducked his head into the pillow. He’d blame the fluttery swirl of his stomach on the alcohol still in his system, not the fuzzy warm idea that Box had genuinely wanted him, enough to bring him home and keep him there for the night. 

“Why do you do that?” Box rolled into the bed more fully and tugged an end of the sheet over himself as he settled in. There had been a dim lamp on by the bedside that he clicked off, but enough streetlight through the window that they could still see one another.

“Do what?” George readjusted.

“Every time you smile or laugh,” Box reached out, grasped George’s jaw in one hand, and guided him closer, “Closed lips and all. You try and hide it. Like your supposed to be serious or summat. Someone told you that y’arent supposed to be having a good time?”

George felt warm. It wasn’t something he thought about but maybe Box was right. He’d surely been barked at for ages about finding things funny when it was ‘inappropriate’. At this point he wasn’t sure if his own joy was ever acceptable for most situations. He wasn’t sure if and when that would change, but he did know that Box’s warm fingers on his face, holding him none too gently, was stirring his blood again.

George didn’t answer his question at all. He let Box’s grip lead him forward and when his hands met warm chest, he pushed Box flat on his back with little resistance. He slid over him, straddled him, and kissed him again with that slow and creeping need. Box’s hand brushed over his cheek, down his neck, and journeyed across George’s body in response.

“I’ll smile if you say you aren’t booting me for the night..” He murmured against Box’s lips. The man’s hands were already on his arse again, huge and hot and holding him in place.

Box smirked, “Wasn’t going to.”

George grinned again, this time wide and unrestrained.

* * *

George would have liked to claim to have had the greatest sleep of his life but Box’s body ran about a thousand degrees and both of them didn’t seem to be used to sharing a bed with someone else, so while it was nice to have someone tug him close and nose into his hair, someone for him to lay on like a pillow and cling to like a giant stuffed bear, he mostly tossed and turned and caught snippets of rest until he could hear birds above the sound of Box’s low snoring and see pink rays peeking through the sheer curtains.

Fancy slipped out of the bed as stealthily as he could. He grabbed his trousers and his shirt, fetched his shoes and as he did so knocked his dangling belt buckle into the post of the wooden bed with an audible sound. He paused, looked up at Box still asleep, and continued on. The bedroom door was silent as he opened it but George stubbed his toe on the jamb with a soft curse on his way out. He found his jacket tossed over the back of a leather sofa in the main room but did no more than snatch it up before he fled to the bathroom.

George sat on the closed toilet lid in the glaring florescent light and checked his phone. It was still alive, had no messages pressing, and told him it was barely five in the morning. His eyes felt like they were falling out of his head and his stomach was a bit sour, but the tablets he’d taken the evening before had worn down most of the aches he should’ve been feeling after the buggering Box had given him for most of the night.

Just thinking of it made George smile in spite of himself.

He had _absolutely_ been fucked silly by a superior. He’d done plenty more, in fact, and he wasn’t regretting a bit of it. Still, he was sure Box wouldn’t feel the same with the booze worn off, so it was probably in his best interests to get out of there as quick as possible.

Now George had never claimed to be wise or have that sense everyone said was so common, so he didn’t think twice about his decision to have a quick rinse off in the shower before he left. It was 5am and no one in their right mind was up at that hour, so Box would still be well asleep in ten or fifteen minutes when he was done and could sneak the rest of the way out.

The first blast of hot water was a blessing and George closed his eyes as he stood under it and let it beat against his tense body. He didn’t want to mess with Box’s things so instead of a real thorough wash, he just ran his hands in his hair a bit and pulled the bar of soap across his skin lightly before he put it back in it’s dish.

It had been a good night, all said and done. Box had been both exactly what he expected and surprisingly different at the same time. He knew what he was doing in bed, that was for sure, and George was half hard at just the memory. He fiddled his prick a bit under the shower spray and relived bits of the evening, remembering how Box had looked, how he’d tasted, the feel of his body under his hands - Christ, that would keep him going for months. He was already hard again, but like the rinse off, he was sure he could beat that out in a moment before it was time to go. George braced a hand against the wall and thought about Box’s whispers in his ear as he pounded him into the mattress, the weight of his cock in his hand when he’d first got a go at him in the car, the taste on his tongue as he came, Box’s hands in his hair, gripping, growling, sharing a dirty kiss with the essence of him still on his lips…

George could feel his body tightening under the spray of the shower and movement of his fist. He huffed lightly, squeezed and trembled, and just as he felt the edge so very near… he was interrupted by the bathroom door opening.

“Shit-” He scrambled, almost slipping on the tile as he tried to hide what he was doing, but Box’s shower was one of those with the frosted glass doors so he could see the man outlined on the other side of it, and even with the steam, Box could surely see him as well.

The door slid open and Box was there, still starkers, and he gave him barely a glance as he muttered, “Shove over,” and stepped in behind.

George was nearly frozen in place, cock now at half mast and being pushed down by his hand. The interruption hadn’t stopped the pressure and need for release, and having Box right there certainly wasn’t helping. He gave him a sideways glance and couldn’t help dragging his eyes over his body, even if the man was just leaning under the hot water and had closed his eyes to enjoy it. He watched his hair pushed flat by the water, watched it stream down his chest, over his sides and thighs and-

Yeah.. there it went again. His cock bobbed back to life in his hand.

Before he could debate what to do next he felt Box press against his back. His face turned in towards George’s neck and shoulder and a large arm circled his waist to take George’s cock in hand.

George couldn’t help a surprised sort of gasp, “Ah- sir-”

Box made a negative sort of grunting sound.

“Oh-” George sighed when he felt the hand tighten on him and groaned low the correction, “ _Ronnie_.”

A thumb pressed and smoothed over the head of him and it was like lightning that went straight from root to tip. George shuddered in the man’s arms and leaned heavily back into his body before he realized that he was gripping himself onto Box’s thighs behind his own as he pushed his hips into the other's large, rough hand.

There was no more talking. Box had him off just like that, bodies snug together, George trapped between him and the tile wall, hot steaming water pouring over both of them, and when he finally came in a desperate gasping cry, all the evidence swirled straight down the drain. Box’s bowed head pressed a kiss to the junction of his neck and that single action flipped a switch somewhere inside him. Suddenly this turned from a one time fling, maybe a mistake, to something that he very much wanted to happen again. A crush? Really? On Ronnie fucking Box? That confusing mess could be ignored until later when he didn’t have his DI’s naked body pressed against him in the shower.

George turned under the spray when his legs came back to him and ran his hands over Box’s chest. The unspoken offer was clear, a hand for a hand - more if he wanted, but Box just smirked and gave his head a shake, “Barely awake. Go on with ya. Towels in the cupboard.”

On George’s way out, Box gave his arse a little slap that made him jump and startled out his first laugh of the day.

Fancy dried himself and hauled his things out of the bathroom to dress in the hallway outside the door because going back to the bedroom felt wrong when he was definitely going to be leaving. It was still early, early enough to get back to his room at the house, early enough to maybe even take another shower - and definitely have another wank - and to put on a fresh outfit before work.

Work.

Where he’d have to walk past DI Box’s office now knowing what the man smelled like and tasted like and that with very little effort, and half asleep, the man could bring him off with one hand.

Fuck.

Trousers on, shoes. He heard the shower turn off, heard the glass door slide open, heard the rattle of the towel rack as Box pulled down his towel to dry off. George did his best not to visualize it, soft terry rubbed all over that body, but he clearly failed so he hopped down the hall one foot at a time as he put his shoes on.

By the time he was ruffling his hair in the sitting room, perched on the top of the sofa next to his jacket, Box appeared in the hall with a towel around his waist and his hair unbrushed and falling on his head in wet ringlets. He certainly looked much more bright eyed than before even if he didn’t say much. He simply padded out to the kitchen, turned on the kettle, and opened a cabinet to fetch something.

“Fancy,” He said in a still sleep-rough voice.

When George turned he saw something snack sized flying at him. He snatched it out of the air and found himself holding some sort of protein breakfast bar.

“Next time you want to run out on me, you’ll have to do it earlier,” Box winked.

_Next time. Next time. Next time._

All thought disappeared and that simple phrase rattled around like a pinball inside of his empty head, pinged off of his pleasure centers, and made him grin again.

Box approached and held out his hand, “Let me see your mobile.”

George handed it over without hesitation.

Box unlocked it, typed something in, and handed it back. It was a phone number. He already had Box’s number, of course, he had to for work.

“My personal mobile,” He smirked.

“Oh,” George blinked, “Right.”

_Next time. Next time. Next time._

“Next time then,” George heard himself saying aloud as Box went back to his kettle.

“I’ll see you in a couple’a hours actually, Georgie boy,” Box checked his watch, which he’d apparently put back on after his shower, “We’re on the rota.”

“Right. Later then,” George nodded, grabbed his jacket, and with only one lingering appreciative glance at Box in his towel, was out the door.

He fished for his earphones when he’d finally reached the street, looked down at his mobile, and finding the number still sitting undialed and unsaved, decided to plug in a name. Something not quite overt but something he wouldn’t forget - ‘Hotbox’.


End file.
